


Pax Augusta

by yunitsa



Category: Rome
Genre: Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-16
Updated: 2007-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunitsa/pseuds/yunitsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war is over and the dust clears. Historically vague futurefic, written before the final episodes aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pax Augusta

**Author's Note:**

> There's no excuse for this. Fluffier than candy floss, complete with floppy-eared dog.

Augustus Caesar rewards loyal service, no matter how long it takes in coming. After the war is over and the dust clears, there is an honourable marriage for Vorena the Elder and a betrothal for her sister, a post for young Lucius when he comes of age, and a prosperous farm in the country for the head of the Vorenii. Pullo takes his own family and comes with him, of course -- where else would he go?

The sun is setting on the two of them as they sit drinking good Falernian wine on the veranda, miles better than the rotgut they used to swill on campaign. Their stomachs are full -- perhaps a little softer than they used to be -- and their feet stretched out towards the last of the sun.

A cry comes from within the house. They spring upright on cue but it's only frustration: Eirene and the nurse coping with little Titus, ill and an even worse patient than his father.

"D'you think he'll be all right?" Pullo demands anxiously, when they've settled back into their chairs.

"Children get ill, brother," Vorenus says, though he's still thrumming with tension. They're both wishing, Pullo's aware, that sickness had a name and an address where they could go and chop it into pieces, together. "You know he'll get the best doctor, if the women say it's needful."

The _women_ had told them not to fuss and practically chased them from the sickroom. As if two old soldiers of the thirteenth should ever do anything so undignified as fuss, ha. There are times when he thinks back to the days when Eirene was cowed by him, and can only laugh.

"Do you remember…" Pullo begins, an old, rude story, and soon they are laughing together, holding their well-fed sides.

The dusk falls, slow and quiet, and the insects buzz about their ears. The wine is finished but they remain there, too lazy to move, occasionally snatching grapes from the bowl like boys -- as if they weren't Vorenus' own grapes, weren't theirs.

"This is the life," Pullo says, stretching luxuriously.

"Not half bad," Vorenus agrees. Coming from him, Pullo thinks, tolerant, it's as bad as dancing naked through the streets with joy. The image makes him chuckle again.

"What's so funny?" Vorenus demands, eyes narrowed.

"You," he wheezes, knowing it's a provocation, and sure enough Vorenus is out of his chair before he can blink, and they are wrestling on the floor, his head locked in the crook of Vorenus' arm and his hand pushing back at his forehead. One of them knocks over the table with the empty winejug and cups and bowl of grapes, and they tumble off the veranda and onto the grassy earth, moist with dew, where they lie panting together side by side.

"Grass stains," Vorenus huffs mournfully, plucking at his fine linen tunic. "They'll have our heads."

"Think the jug's broken," Pullo adds. They shudder in unison, anticipating. "Worse than the army, this. Not a shred of freedom. Slaves to our women."

"Say the dog did it?"

"My Fido?" He props himself up on an elbow, offended. "He's got better manners than that. Trained him myself."

They fall silent: Vorenus is looking up at the darkening sky and Pullo is looking down at Vorenus. His face is still as craggy as ever, right enough, but the strain of years is finally beginning to ease, replaced by laughter lines and freckles from the sun. His hair is still mostly Gaulish ginger, where Pullo's has long since gone grizzled -- well, anyone would turn grey, trying to keep this one out of trouble.

Jupiter is bright overhead, and Venus in the east, and the first of the stars, and in the house behind them there are fires lit and the clattering of pots and talk and the barking of a spoiled, floppy-eared dog as two boys named Lucius, a youth and a toddler, chase him around the atrium.

And outside on the cold wet grass, Titus Pullo looks down at his friend, both of them for once simply happy with worries manageable or far away, and reaches down to kiss him.

He means it to be on the cheek -- the comrade's salute they've shared a handful of times in moments of crisis or triumph -- but in the last second Vorenus turns towards him and their mouths meet, stained with grapes and wine.

Pullo jerks away at once -- it's a transgression, they don't do this -- but Vorenus' face in the dusk and the slanting light from the house shows no anger. His mouth is half-open and his eyes bright, and after a moment he smiles and his hand closes around the back of Pullo's neck, drawing him back down.

As they kiss they seem to regain the rhythm of the wrestling, but gentler -- his arm around Vorenus' shoulders and Vorenus' hand on his chest, clutching hard at the cloth. When Vorenus finally gets him on his back, kneeling above him and grinning like a madman, it's anything but a defeat.

_Why_, he wants to ask, _why now_, because it seems that he's wanted this for years without realizing, this match of strength with strength and love with love. All the times they've fought together, and on opposite sides, and each other -- such a long road to this place.

"Come to bed, brother," Vorenus says in his ear and Pullo nods dumbly: their arms clasp and they pull each other up and stand there together.

"Better not let them see," Pullo mutters, tugging his tunic into place, painfully aware that he's blushing like a maiden, though anything but maidenly beneath.

"We'll go in through the laundry."

They sneak up on tiptoe, freezing at each creak of the stair, each sound of movement below, until the door of Vorenus' bedroom finally closes behind them.

It's still a bare room, just serviceable, the bed made with military neatness, and he knows that Vorenus has never shared it with anybody. For some reason the thought sends him wild, and he backs Vorenus up against the door and sets to with a will, no longer caring a fig about noise.

Vorenus gasps in surprise at first but meets him unhesitating, panting into his mouth and tugging at his clothes. They make it to the bed and tumble atop it, the straw settling beneath their weight. Pullo sits up with an effort and they strip, battle-ready speed in reverse, and then there is skin against his, warm and damp with sweat.

Their faces bump together as they move against each other, breathing too hard to kiss, Vorenus' arms clamped around his shoulders like a vise. The curtains are drawn but Pullo can still see every inch of him, trace them in his mind and with his hands, every scar and muscle, and it's _easy_. Why had he never realized how easy it would be?

It's as if they've done this every night for a decade, and maybe, if the gods are good to him, for the next decade they _will_, and the thought is so absurd and so glorious that Pullo comes on a shout, and hears his own name muffled against his throat.

In the silence afterwards they lie close together. Pullo gets up and opens the window, and the night air is cool against their skin.

"Eirene always did say I loved you best," he ventures after a moment.

Vorenus snorts, but then, being the grim fellow that he is by nature, says, "If I've caused trouble between you--"

"You never mind that." He turns over, lays a hand against the side of his face. "It's different, see? She's my _wife_." He doesn't know how to explain it any better.

"They used to talk about us, you know," Vorenus says meditatively. "Back in the legion, and on the Aventine. Why Lucius Vorenus puts up with backchat from Titus Pullo -- must be because Pullo's screwing him up the--"

He feels himself flush to the roots of his hair -- a man of his age and experience, utterly scandalized. "Those filthy whoreson bastards! Why didn't you tell me? I would've…"

"I know." He smiles, slanted. "Thus reducing the rumours to well-known fact, no doubt. If it had been anyone else they spoke of, I would've killed them myself."

"Don't tell me you liked the idea," Pullo grumbles.

"What? Of you--" There's mischief in his voice, wonder of wonders, and Pullo kisses him to shut him up.

"Well, if you _liked_ the idea," he growls, pinning his wrists above his head, "I'm sure I'd be willing…." It doesn't last, of course -- they're too well-matched. But works out just as well in the end.

They doze together while the house quiets around them. From downstairs they can just hear Eirene and the nurse pacing and speaking in their own language. Finally, towards dawn, the nurse's gruff voice comes up loud and clear:

"There, my lambkin. Fever's broke…"

Pullo stiffens, and Vorenus' hand strokes down his spine. Then they sleep as the day breaks, two old soldiers at peace at last.


End file.
